cradled up, might you see-
the call of unwhitened things-
and disagree in your movement-
of interest into a twinkle-
and I twinkle twinkle
grin at little stars all around
overlook the white walking sound
-that seeing, I forget men who stumble with sticks
-women, of harsh, happy voices
-overseen magic, I stumble into corners
-And live there blind to curves in a lens.
